Some of the faces in the crowd ring familiar to me. Mostly friends and family of the performers with a few Shakespeare enthusiasts littered among them. Spencer and his fellow actors sent out requests to every casting director and agent in town in the hopes that one of them would show up for their WorldWar I reimagining ofMacbeth. I wouldn’t know them by face, but this is the last show of the run, so I hope there is someone here. Spencer is a great actor and has been in the business for five years without professional representation. This led him to take matters into his own hands, organizing troupe-run productions like this one. According to Spencer, ticket sales have been just enough to cover the four-week run. Everything has been done by the actors, including sourcing costumes, finding venues, and promoting the play. The crowd is silent as I duck down and creep toward my seat. The room is pitch-black except for a spotlight haloing the center of the stage. This performance space is a crypt in a church basement in the middle of the city. It’s ironic really; if Spencer doesn’t agree to my wild plan, my company is six feet under.
A man dressed in a fitted green tweed jacket steps into the light, briefly making eye contact with me as I squeeze past an aisle of annoyed onlookers to get to my assigned seat.
“So, thanks to all at once and to each one,
“Whom we invite to see us crown’d at Scone.”
I am late. Mostly deliberately to avoid chatting with my parents before the show and a little bit accidentally after putting the final touches on an updated pitch presentation before “Violet” sent it off to Odericco Investments. I slink into the seat beside my mum as she tuts and whispers something to my father.
“Sorry, I came straight from work,” I mouth, wriggling out of my puffer coat.
“Why are you wearing a T-shirt and jeans in the office? Aren’t you in charge?” My dad grumbles, the shine from the spotlight skimming his bald spot like a halo.
I purse my lips, glancing down at my Debbie Harry T-shirtand patchwork denim before schooling my mouth into the polite smile I reserve exclusively for taxi drivers who start ranting about the “state of things nowadays” when there’s still fifteen minutes left to the journey. “Nice to see you both.”
Neither of them reply, focusing back on the stage instead. As quietly as humanly possible, I readjust my body into a comfortable position and settle in for two hours of Spencer and Company.
My brother laps up the crowd; he is never more comfortable than when he’s on the stage. And luckily, he’s also very good at what he does. He has this natural quality that makes you truly believe what he’s saying. It’s almost eerie, watching someone you’ve known your whole life become a completely different person.
When the applause subsides, the cast reappears from behind a red velvet curtain. I also came to opening night, when the tails were bushy but the flow was clunky. Now, as their shining faces line up and glance at one another to synchronize the final bow, the looks of sadness and relief are potent.
Spencer played Macduff and was the understudy for the titular role, something he was disappointed to not have had the chance to do during this run of shows. He practiced the iconic “Is this a dagger which I see before me?” monologue to Cecily, Pacha, and me so many times we all know it by heart, mouthing along with him like some thespian cult groupies singing B-sides.
“Why did you cut bangs?” Mum says as we leave our seats, standing face-to-face for the first time this evening. My parents always frame insults in the form of a question. Like this is their way of being interested in my life. No “How’s work?” “Whatare you up to?” “How’s the love life?” We don’t hug, but then again, the Coles are not famous for expressing their emotions through body language. Or any other language for that matter.
I consider replying,Because that’s what you do in a life crisis,but don’t gather up the nerve. It was either my homemade bangs in the bathroom mirror with a pair of office scissors or getting a part of my body pierced that isn’t my ear. Curtain bangs were free and seemed way less likely to end in an infection.
Before my parents leave, I watch them say their hellos, goodbyes, and well-dones to my brother and his fellow actors as they scatter into the crowd, how proud they are of him for saying lines in a basement. If that sounds mean, it’s because I’m bitter. They don’t know about the numerous times I’ve bailed him out, the times he’s refused a full-time or even part-time job at a local coffee shop or restaurant because he needs to be available for background acting onMade in Chelseaat a moment’s notice. But after tonight, he will have a huge piece of dirt to hold over me as sibling mutually assured destruction. So maybe this will be a good thing for our relationship?
Once the crowds have filtered out, I follow Spencer backstage.
“Remind me again why your playhadto be performed in a crypt?” I ask, grasping my puffer coat for warmth.
Spencer peels off his military jacket, arms glistening with sweat underneath, and hangs it on one of the metal clothing racks lining the walls, “For the om-bee-ance,” he declares in a French accent.
“The zombi-ence?” I tease, holding up a Styrofoam skull.
He rolls his eyes. “The ambience, you philistine.”
I run my finger across a wooden shelf, opening a line in the dust like Moses parting the Dead Sea. “This ambience is going to be stuck in the back of my throat for several days.”
Spencer rolls his eyes as I wipe my finger off on my coat. “So I wanted to talk to you about something.” I lean against a stone structure covered with the cast’s leftovers from lunch.
He pauses, staring at the stone behind me and awkwardly grits his teeth. “Yeah, I think there might be an actual body in there.”
“Ew, dude,” I say as I tidy the sacrilegious paper coffee cups, plates, and napkins off the surface and dump them in the bin.
“And if this is about the missing desk lamps, I promise I will bring them back now we’ve finished the show run,” he says quickly, as though saying it fast will cause it to fly over my head.
“Not that, but yes definitely bring them back; they are the building’s, not mine. It’s about work.”
“Of course, when isn’t it?” He sighs.
I contain my jab that we are literally having this conversation in a plague pit because he insists on us coming to every opening and finale show.
Just accept it; you’re about to ask him for a huge favor.
“You know that email I got the other day? The one you thought might be a scam?”
